


see me after class

by astroturfwars



Series: no wrong answer [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Daichi has a fantastic ass, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, and Bokuto is unhelpful as usual, kuroo has the world's most ill-advised crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroturfwars/pseuds/astroturfwars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuroo’s always been fairly quick at learning names. It’s part of his professorial charm; he’s been told he’s good at making students feel like individuals instead of just another face in a crowded room of bored twenty-somethings, and end-of-the-year reviews come back positive, citing attentiveness and personalized help as Kuroo’s strong points. Kuroo doesn’t <i>preen</i> about it, per se, but he takes a measure of unspoken pride in his pass rate and in the number of students he’s convinced to stick with philosophy.</p><p>Part of the process of achieving that pass rate is putting names to faces. That means Kuroo spends the second weekend of the school year at his kitchen table, going through his class roster and trying to memorize the names of his current class members.</p><p>The first name he learns is <i>Sawamura Daichi</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	see me after class

Kuroo isn’t expecting anything special this school year.

He never does, not anymore. He’s been teaching for going on three years now, and each year is mostly the same: there are a couple of students who excel, a handful who flounder, and a few who are trouble through and through. The rest are more or less average—which is boring, truth be told, but it keeps Kuroo’s workload at a manageable level.

So when one of his students heads directly for the second-to-front row on the very first day of class, Kuroo doesn’t think much of it. He greets him cordially, figures this one’s either an overachiever or a suck-up, and reserves further judgment for later on, once he’s given his standard intentionally stressful start-of-term pretest.

Students start filtering in, and by nine-twenty the class has mostly settled. He’s got at least one solid metaphor that he wants to hit in his introductory address before nine-forty-five, so at nine-thirty Kuroo clears his throat to be heard over the hum of awkward first-day-of-class chatter.

Once he’s got the majority of his students’ attention, Kuroo puts on his best _this’ll be fun_ smile and kicks off what will undoubtedly be yet another uninteresting year.

—

Kuroo’s always been fairly quick at learning names. It’s part of his professorial charm; he’s been told he’s good at making students feel like individuals instead of just another face in a crowded room of bored twenty-somethings, and end-of-the-year reviews come back positive, citing attentiveness and personalized help as Kuroo’s strong points. Kuroo doesn’t _preen_ about it, per se, but he takes a measure of unspoken pride in his pass rate and in the number of students he’s convinced to stick with philosophy.

Part of the process of achieving that pass rate is putting names to faces. That means Kuroo spends the second weekend of the school year at his kitchen table, going through his class roster and trying to memorize the names of his current class members.

The first name he learns is _Sawamura Daichi_.

He knows Sawamura’s face already; he’s the one who always sits just behind the front row, a little off to the side, more memorable for the consistency of his location in the room. Off the top of his head Kuroo remembers that he seems capable, self-possessed, and diligent, which is more than he can say for half of the other students in his mid-level philosophy class.

On second thought, that really _is_ more than he could say for most of his students, which is…strange. Kuroo’s not sure why Sawamura stands out in his memory; maybe it’s the quiet confidence he carries in the set of his shoulders, or the ease with which he smiles when he greets Kuroo before class every other day.

It could also be that he’d seen Sawamura collar and separate two bickering freshmen like they were nothing more than a pair of rowdy puppies last week on his way to class.

That’s the most likely explanation. Kuroo shrugs it off as nothing out of the ordinary and thinks no more of it.

—

Sawamura is exactly the overachiever Kuroo had guessed he’d be.

He turns in all of his work on time. He gets good grades. He pays attention to in-class lectures, and sometimes makes sarcastic little noises at the bad jokes Kuroo works into his explanations.

He even does the required readings. Kuroo doesn’t think half of his students _own_ the books necessary for the required readings.

Kuroo’s seen plenty of garden-variety model students this far in his career, and he expects he’ll see hundreds more before he retires. Sawamura may be a model student, yes, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary.

—

Kuroo does individual assessments a quarter of the way through the first semester partly because they’re heavily recommended by the head of his department, and partly just to check and make sure no one is falling through the cracks. He knows by now that Sawamura is in absolutely no danger of failing out of his class, but he sets up a meeting anyway, just to make sure.

He’s expecting this meeting to be short, to the point, and probably unremarkable. And it is, for the ten seconds it takes for Sawamura to show up on time, knock politely on the door of Kuroo’s office, and extend his hand to introduce himself.

Within those ten seconds, Kuroo notices two things.

The first is that Sawamura’s giving him the firmest—most challenging too, if he’s honest—handshake that Kuroo’s had since he first met Bokuto, the chemistry professor who holds the dubious honor of being his best friend, three years ago in some competition for an interdepartmental award.

The second is that, up close, Sawamura is really sort of—

"Let’s get started, shall we?" Kuroo says, and sits behind his desk before he comes any closer to toeing the line of moral transgression.

—

Kuroo likes to think that, as a philosophy professor, he’s gotten pretty skilled at separating objectivity from subjectivity. It’s one of those skills he’s found useful to his job, one of the things that allow him to both bullshit and rationalize theories with equal efficacy.

Normally Kuroo’s good at impersonal observation. That ability is currently failing him.

He’s sitting at his desk, chin on his hand, probably not paying as much attention to class as he should be given that he’d just administered a pop quiz. He’s not paying much attention to the class as a whole, actually, because he’s paying much more attention to a particular student than he should be; and both are problematic, but Kuroo’s going to let that slide for the remaining three minutes of class.

For the remaining three minutes of class Kuroo lets his eyes wander to the right side of the room, just behind the front row. Now that he’s at a distance, he allows himself to think what he hadn’t during their previous meeting: that Sawamura is actually sort of— _really_ —cute.

He’s got a sweet face, the kind that looks best pink-cheeked and smiling, the kind that should be kissed while laughing—and that’s all well and good, but Kuroo’s looking a little lower than that. He’s looking at the frankly impressive breadth of Sawamura’s shoulders, at the smooth swell of muscle in his arms; and if Kuroo’s eyes drop right to the rather generous curve of Sawamura’s ass when he stands to leave, he’s probably discreet enough that his appreciation goes unnoticed.

Usually Kuroo can give someone a good once-over and be done with it, but there’s something about Sawamura that makes his eyes linger and his mind wander. Maybe it’s because he’s the type who looks like he’d need to be romanced before he’d let Kuroo lay him down and work him out; the type who’d like to be kissed thoroughly and touched all over; the type who would, apparently, take a little more obvious effort to coax into bed, because he’s looking right at Kuroo and _smiling_ instead of wondering why his professor is checking him out.

Kuroo flashes a lightning-quick smile in return and marvels at the fact that Sawamura just waves at him and leaves, like there was nothing weird about that interaction at all.

Once the classroom is empty, Kuroo takes a step back from his desk, takes a deep breath, and takes a second to reflect on the fact that he just might have a problem.

—

"Tell me this is a bad idea."

"It’s an awful idea, Kuroo. Right up your alley."

Kuroo picks his head up off his arms to glare at Bokuto across his coffee table. He’d called Bokuto over to get drunk and vent about how badly he’d fucked up by developing some stupid _thing_ for one of his students, not to be made fun of—though it’s not like Kuroo ever expects anything else from Bokuto, anyway. The normality is sort of refreshing.

"Asshole," he mumbles, and swipes Bokuto’s beer before he can protest. "I’m surprised it’s _me_ and not you."

"What’s _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I thought _you’d_ be the one to pull some dumb shit like—” and Kuroo handwaves this part, because he’s not sure how to properly explain that he’s spent more time thinking about Sawamura’s ass lately than he has lesson plans “—this.”

"Screw you," Bokuto snaps, glaring. "I’m having lunch with Akaashi this week, actually, so I’m clearly making more progress than you are."

Akaashi is a literature department intern whose good graces Bokuto’s been trying to get into—with minimal success—since last school year. Considering that Sawamura’s the only person Kuroo’s really been stuck on for more than a few days as of late, it’s not clear which one of their love lives is worse at this point.

Kuroo rolls his eyes and says, “You mean you’re gonna sit at the same table as him in the staff lounge and hope he doesn’t ‘accidentally’ crush your foot under the table again.”

"Progress is progress!" Bokuto says, all bright eyes and wide smiles, and Kuroo can’t help but laugh.

"I’m sure it is." He lifts Bokuto’s bottle in a poor attempt at a toast; Bokuto flips him off and reaches across the table to grab another beer from the six-pack.

Once Bokuto’s finished about a third of the bottle in one go, he thumps it down on the table and gives Kuroo what is likely supposed to be a very serious look. It comes off more like a leer than anything, though—which is pretty fitting, because the next thing he says is: “Is he cute?”

 _Cute_ is something of an understatement, Kuroo thinks; _cute_ isn’t nearly sufficient to describe the way Sawamura looks when he’s daydreaming, or the way he smiles when he’s made a particularly good point in class.

But _cute_ is close enough, and it spares Kuroo from waxing poetic, so he says, “Yeah,” grinning slow as he meets Bokuto’s gaze. “Yeah, he is.”

"Dude, awesome—"

"I’m _not_ giving you a high five.”

—

About a third of the way through the term, Kuroo has established that he has a bit of a thing for Sawamura—but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

Sure, it’s sort of difficult not to pause when he makes a routine scan of the class while he’s lecturing and finds Sawamura looking right at him, chin on his hand, half-smiling as he alternates between watching Kuroo pace and taking notes; maybe it wears on his self-control a little when Sawamura stays to ask questions after class and looks up at Kuroo from underneath his eyelashes in a way that very nearly edges on coy. And so what if he’s glad to be sitting behind his desk the one time he catches Sawamura concentrating on a test, slightly slack-mouthed, the tip of his pen pressed against his lower lip as he squints down at his paper?

Okay, so Sawamura is essentially an ambulant distraction. But Kuroo’s fine with that, he can handle that, it’s okay—

—until, on one fine Monday morning, it’s not.

This Monday morning is not unlike most others, which is to say it’s unsurprisingly shitty. Kuroo had gone to sleep late last night and woken up an hour early because he was behind on—paperwork, grading, lesson material—everything, really, and the extra hours he’s spent hunched over his laptop in the last few days are coming back to haunt him in the form of persistent aches. And like that’s not bad enough, he’s got a wicked headache that stems from eyestrain and about eight different sources of stress and, of course, lack of caffeine.

That’s why Kuroo’s slumped across his desk, head pillowed on his arms and eyes screwed shut, hoping that if he keeps his eyes closed long enough the world might just stop to give him a break.

But the world doesn’t work that way—and isn’t that a shame? —so of course the door to his classroom opens and shuts at what Kuroo guesses is ten minutes to class. Kuroo sends up a silent prayer (it goes something like _please, god, don’t ask me any questions_ ) and elects to keep his head down to minimize the appearance of potential helpfulness.

"Kuroo-sensei?"

Now Kuroo _really_ doesn’t want to look up. He’s tired and irritated and sore, and he isn’t looking to add ‘sexually frustrated’ to the list of things already wearing on his nerves today; but it’s looking a little like he doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

He opens one eye and squints up at Sawamura (who’s backlit by an overhead light in a way that could be angelic if it didn’t hurt Kuroo’s eyes) and says, as dryly as possible, “Good morning.”

Sawamura is equal parts confused and concerned when he looks down at Kuroo, frowning. “Are you alright?”

At least twenty different responses come to mind. Roughly ten of them are variations on _hell no_ , five are bad pickup lines, three are confessions, and two are actual answers—though only one of them is appropriate. “It’s a Monday. I’ve been better.”

"Ah," Sawamura says. The sympathy in his voice melds with something else, something softer, and the weight of it makes Kuroo lift his head to look at him straight on. When he does, Sawamura is—fidgeting? no—pulling something from the side pocket of his backpack and setting it down on Kuroo’s desk.

It’s a can of coffee.

"I know a thing or two about caffeine headaches," he says, and the fluorescent light behind his head is nowhere near as bright as his smile. "This should help."

Kuroo doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face is, apparently, enough; Sawamura chuckles and heads back to his seat, tossing a satisfied little _you’re welcome_ over his shoulder as he goes.

Before just now, if drunk and alone and maybe a little bitter and asked, Kuroo would’ve said that, yeah, he had a bit of a thing for Sawamura Daichi.

'A bit of a thing' is officially a bit of an understatement.

By the time the doors open and his class starts filtering in for lecture, Kuroo’s head is buried in his arms again—but now there’s a smile touching the edges of his mouth, and maybe this Monday isn’t looking so bad after all.

—

The thing is that this—this whole thing, this ill-advised placement of affection and the subsequent mess it’s made of Kuroo’s head—this would all be easier if it were only physical.

But Sawamura handles himself the way Kuroo never had when he was that age and carries himself with a quiet sort of confidence that Kuroo sees in the set of his shoulders, hears in the timbre of his tone; he stays back after class and talks to Kuroo in a way that makes him forget the years and professions that separate them.

The thing is that Kuroo _likes_ Sawamura, likes his smile and his mannerisms and _him_ , and that makes everything both better and worse.

—

Mid-term meetings have never seemed quite as vexing as they do right now.

On Kuroo’s schedule is a one-o’clock appointment, which wouldn’t be a problem if that appointment weren’t with Sawamura. Sawamura, who tends to be on Kuroo’s mind more often than not nowadays, who doesn’t even _need_ a check-in because he’s doing just fine in Kuroo’s class—and who will probably arrive within the next five minutes because he’s considerate and responsible and usually always on time.

Kuroo figures he could do with a quick walk down to the bathroom ( _not_ to preen, and _not_ to jerk off, though both of those prospects have their own sort of allure) to cool off before Sawamura arrives, and he’s heading out of his office to do just that when someone slams directly into him.

It’s purely out of reflex that Kuroo’s hands drop to waist-level to steady whoever had decided to elbow him directly in the stomach; but once he recovers enough to see whom he’s holding upright—of course, _of course_ —he doesn’t want to let go.

Sawamura is pressed up against Kuroo in every cliché and publicly inappropriate way possible, close enough that he can probably feel the quick-and-mounting beat of Kuroo’s heart. He’s warm, too, hips broad and sturdy under Kuroo’s hands, and— _god_ , Kuroo’s sort of reconsidering the viability of jerking off in the staff bathrooms right about now.

"Oh—sorry! I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—" Sawamura stops talking long enough to notice his hand is splayed against Kuroo’s chest where he’d tried to steady himself and yanks it back, wide-eyed. He takes a breath, puts on an apologetic smile, and says, one last time, "Sorry."

Kuroo looks down at Sawamura, at the faint blush sitting high on the full curve of his cheeks, at the freshly-bitten swell of lips now curving into a faintly perplexed frown, and—once again—confirms that it’s been months since he’s wanted to kiss anyone as badly as he wants to kiss Sawamura right now.

"Kuroo-sensei?"

 _Right_.

Kuroo takes a deep breath, takes a step back, takes a second to get his head on straight. Sawamura’s here for a meeting, not for him.

"Sorry," Kuroo says, smiling wide to cover up his crumbling composure. "Come in."

—

The straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back falls into place on a slow Thursday morning.

It’s been raining steadily since daybreak, and Kuroo is giving in to the same sort of clinging lethargy to which his class appears to have succumbed. He feels rather like he should’ve stayed in bed today, watching shitty movies and dozing off intermittently instead of getting his shoes damp walking to class through a solid few inches of rain.

The room is, for the most part, quiet; Kuroo makes a lazy survey to see if anyone at all is paying attention—and pauses on the right side of the room, one row behind the front.

Sawamura’s looking out the window, eyes half-lidded and glassy, and on his lips is this sweet little half-pout pucker that Kuroo tries not to let himself think he’d like to kiss away.

And underneath that first instinct, Kuroo sort of wants to know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, because he so rarely catches Sawamura daydreaming during class. It’s unlike him, to say the least, but—and here Kuroo’s heart and stomach sink in tandem—it’s also strangely endearing.

There are ten minutes left in today’s lecture. Kuroo heaves a quiet sigh, dismisses his class early, and goes home to take what could loosely be called a ‘personal day’.

(‘Personal day’ means Kuroo forgoes grading papers and spends his day on his couch in ratty sweats. It means he orders takeout and cracks the first beer in a fresh six-pack around seven o’clock. It means he gets just drunk enough that when he jerks off thinking about dark eyes and steady hands and half-pouting frowns, he can clean himself up and pass out without thinking too hard about—anything, really, and that’s enough for now.)

—

The first assurance of a hope Kuroo hadn’t known he was waiting for comes just after midterms.

After his first class, the room is vacant until nearly noon, so Kuroo likes to stay behind sometimes. It does him a bit of good to be able to think in open air—considering his office often feels like a graduated broom closet—and besides, the desk in his classroom is close to twice the size of the one in the aforementioned glorified broom closet, so the extra space helps him organize more efficiently.

He has a cup of coffee, two highlighters in each hand, and nearly a week’s worth of homework assignments piled up in varyingly precarious stacks. Kuroo’s all set to bury himself in work for the next hour—and then, because the world probably hates him, the door to his classroom swings open.

"Kuroo-sensei," Sawamura says, smiling as he makes his way to the front of the room. Kuroo could swear he looks the slightest bit apprehensive—and why would that be? "Do you need any help with that?"

Kuroo raises an eyebrow, looks between the papers and Sawamura. He’d probably say yes even if he didn’t need the help, purely for the pleasure of Sawamura’s company—god, Kuroo is so fucked—but he could actually use a hand, so he nods and gestures for Sawamura to pull up a chair.

The sort of quiet they settle into is companionable, and maybe Kuroo should think something of that but he doesn’t; it just _fits_ , simple and comfortable, the way Sawamura’s hand seems like it would fit with Kuroo’s.

It’s easy to lose track of time in work this way, and a third of the homework papers have been graded by the time Kuroo’s back starts to protest. It can’t hurt to take a break, especially with Sawamura here to help, so Kuroo sits up straight and stretches, arms above his head. The hem of his shirt rides up in a way that, if asked, Kuroo would say was calculated, but is actually entirely coincidental.

It’s also apparently effective, because when Kuroo quits yawning long enough to open his eyes, he catches Sawamura _staring_ at him, gaze heavy on the cut of Kuroo’s stomach and drifting a little lower. He can’t deny that the weight of Sawamura’s stare makes his blood thrum almost immediately, makes him go warm with a sort of victory he’d been trying to convince himself he didn’t need.

This is probably a sign of some sort. Kuroo’s almost sure of it.

In the face of a decision of this magnitude, there’s a part of him that wants to hold on to this tenuous and perpetual state of _what-if_ —and then there’s a part of him that says _fuck it, just go for it, what have you got to lose_?

(The answer is _everything_ ; but Kuroo thinks of the way Sawamura is with him, of the way he is with Sawamura, and aren’t all trust falls frightening until someone catches you?)

Kuroo takes a breath, hopes for the best, and keeps his tone teasing when he says, “Oh? D’you like what you see?”

"Ah," Sawamura starts, caught unawares, and Kuroo can’t help but think he’s cute like this, eyes wide and mouth tight as he searches for words. It’s clear by the way he finally doesn’t know what to say that Kuroo’s managed to throw him; but Kuroo doesn’t let up, because whatever game he’s playing with Sawamura is for keeps.

"It’s not for a grade, Sawamura. There’s no wrong answer."

There is a very full silence, wherein Sawamura sucks on that pretty lower lip of his and Kuroo thinks about what he’d give to be able to do the same.

And then, finally: “Yeah,” Sawamura says, meeting Kuroo’s eyes. “I do.”

There’s no wrong answer, but there sure as hell is extra credit.

—

"Finals are in a few weeks, right?"

Kuroo doesn’t look up from his lesson plan. “I’m sure you’ve known that since the beginning of the semester, Sawamura.”

There’s an aborted sigh, followed by a long creak, and this time Kuroo looks up over the rim of his glasses. He narrowly manages to stop himself from doing a double take when he sees Sawamura sitting on the edge of his desk, leaning towards Kuroo like he’s not up to anything at all.

 _Restraint_ , Kuroo tells himself, because he won’t do himself any good thinking about how else he’d like to see Sawamura on his desk.

(Sprawled out on his back, maybe, or bent over it, looking over his shoulder, gasping—)

Kuroo takes a slow, deep breath, pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Why are you asking?”

"Well," Sawamura says, meeting his gaze evenly, "this is the last class I’m taking with you."

"Are you implying something about my teaching methods?"

"No. I’m just saying I’m not your student anymore after the semester ends."

Kuroo takes off his glasses, folds them neatly, and sets them on the desk. Even so, Sawamura is close enough that Kuroo can see the carefully constructed layer of innocence on his face—and, beneath that, a quirk to his mouth that looks nothing short of sly.

"I know," Kuroo says, voice rough.

That little upward curve to Sawamura’s lips blossoms into something sweet and damn near devious. He slides off the desk, says, “I’ll see you Wednesday, sensei,” and takes his leave with a subtle swing to his hips that looks a little like triumph.

Kuroo knows trouble when he sees it, and he can say with all sureness that trouble nowadays is twenty years old with a cute face and a killer ass.

And Kuroo should know better, _does_ know better—but Sawamura is exactly the sort of trouble Kuroo likes best, and Kuroo’s always loved a good challenge.

—

Sawamura passes the final with a high score, just like Kuroo had expected.

His is the last test Kuroo passes back when his students come to pick up their papers and thank Kuroo for a good semester, which means Sawamura is stuck leaning against a desk, watching Kuroo make small talk and accept praise for a solid twenty-five minutes.

Once the last student clears the room, Sawamura approaches Kuroo’s desk and seats himself on the edge of it. He smiles, small and soft and slow, when Kuroo holds out his paper.

"Good work," Kuroo says, making no attempt to hide his smirk. "Looks like I taught you well."

There’s no mistaking the way Sawamura’s fingers tangle with Kuroo’s when his term paper changes hands. Kuroo goes still, but Sawamura gives him a borderline coy glance from under his eyelashes and says, “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’ve still got a lot to learn from you.”

Kuroo swallows hard. He’s tongue-tied, lost for words as he watches Sawamura walk out of his classroom for the last time; he’s also very glad he’d thought to write his phone number on Sawamura’s test beforehand, circled in red, just above his parting message.

 _See me after class_.

—

Two weeks after the end of the term, Sawamura invites Kuroo out for coffee.

It takes Kuroo a good thirty minutes to get to the little out-of-the-way cafe they agreed on, despite the cafe being just over twenty minutes from Kuroo’s apartment. (The fact that he took at least two wrong turns because he was distracted by the first bout of pre-date nervousness he’d had in years didn’t help, either.)

By the time Kuroo reaches the cafe, Sawamura’s already there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, face turned toward the sunset. He’s bathed in low warm light when he turns to wave, and Kuroo registers that this is all terribly romantic—the setting sun, the long-overdue first date, the way Sawamura’s smile makes Kuroo’s heartbeat tick just a little faster.

It’s cheesy and romantic and sentimental and _perfect_ —and _god_ , Kuroo’s got it bad.

"Yo, Sawamura," Kuroo says by way of greeting, stopping a foot or two short of where Sawamura stands. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands or—or at all, really, so he keeps them in his pockets and tries to look like he’s not nervous.

Sawamura looks at him for a long moment, considering, before stepping close and rocking up onto his toes to kiss Kuroo on the cheek.

"Call me Daichi," he says, grinning even though his ears are going red. "Come on, let’s get a table."

Kuroo must have mouthed his name tens of times over the past few months, but he says it aloud for the first time tonight—softly, to himself, while trying not to smile at _Daichi’s_ back as he leads Kuroo into the coffeeshop.

—

They share their first kiss underneath an umbrella on a rainy evening, just after their third date, and it’s every bit as cliché-sweet as it sounds.

"You’re not paying for my cab," Daichi says, arms crossed, mouth set in a firm line as he looks up at Kuroo. "That’s unnecessary."

"Isn’t that money you could be putting towards booze or shitty food? You’d think you’d be more grateful," Kuroo quips, grinning.

The eye roll Daichi gives him is completely warranted. Kuroo knows by now that Daichi eats fairly well, and he doesn’t drink on a regular basis—and besides, Kuroo’s sure Daichi’s fiscally responsible enough for the both of them.

Kuroo had never thought he’d be into that sort of thing, but here he is: completely and unrepentantly taken with responsible, sensible, practical Daichi, who is seven years Kuroo’s junior and still doesn’t let him get away with anything. And maybe that’s a good thing; maybe Kuroo could do with a little stability.

Maybe Daichi’s good for him.

"Kuroo-san?"

Daichi’s voice cuts through Kuroo’s embarrassingly rose-tinted reverie and brings him back to the present, back to doe-dark eyes and a smile treading the line between amused and concerned. “Are you okay?”

He’s _better_ than okay, but he doesn’t know how to put that into words without sounding like an absolute sap, so he doesn’t say anything at all; instead he leans down, cups the back of Daichi’s neck with his free hand, and kisses him the way he’s wanted to do for months.

Daichi’s mouth is soft, pliant and receptive, and he kisses Kuroo back like he’s been waiting just as long for this, too.

—

Four weeks after the end of the term, Kuroo takes Daichi home.

They’re on each other as soon as the door shuts; Daichi’s on his toes, arms around Kuroo’s neck to drag him down, and Kuroo goes all too willingly. He lets Daichi back him up against the wall, lets Daichi get a leg between his—but Kuroo’s legs are longer, and it’s so easy for him to pull Daichi close and press his thigh up until Daichi’s clinging to his shoulders and grinding against him with intent.

Kuroo has wanted this for _ages_ , has gotten off to any number of imagined scenarios just like this one—but none of his guilty fantasies hold a candle to the real thing. It sounds cheesy even in Kuroo’s own head, but it’s true; he is in no way prepared for the way Daichi’s eyes go low-lidded and hazy when Kuroo cups him through his pants, or the tint of embarrassment in his voice when he says, “Kuroo-san, I want—”

"We can take it slow," Kuroo interrupts, because they can, because he wants Daichi to know. "We don’t have to—"

Daichi cuts him off by kissing him _hard_ , like he’s planning to make up an entire semester’s worth of sexual tension in one night; and Kuroo would definitely be on board with that—with fucking Daichi into the mattress or the couch or the floor until neither of them can catch their breath—but he’s been waiting for this a long time, and he’s got something else in mind.

"Come on," Kuroo says, and tugs Daichi in the direction of his living room. It’s sparse, but there’s a couch, and that’ll get the job done; Kuroo sits down heavily and Daichi, who appears to be on the same wavelength, straddles his lap.

This time Kuroo takes Daichi by the chin, kisses him thorough and slow, and Daichi softens into a different kind of frantic: he curls his fingers into the front of Kuroo’s shirt, presses needy little noises into Kuroo’s mouth on the tip of his tongue, sucks in a sharp breath when Kuroo unzips his pants and touches him. He comes apart so gratifyingly easy under Kuroo’s hands, and that makes Kuroo smirk against his mouth—even though he knows damn well the only reason he’s not on the edge too is that Daichi’s hands are clutching at his shoulders instead of working anywhere else.

"Kuroo-san—" Daichi’s voice is uneven, breath hitching, and Kuroo wonders if he’ll always be stunned by how rosy-sweet Daichi looks when he’s high on pleasure and adrenaline. "I’m gonna— _fuck_ —”

Daichi’s freshly twenty, and an athlete to boot; he may have Kuroo beat out in terms of stamina and recovery time (and oh, does Kuroo have plans for that), but Kuroo’s got _experience_. He can still show Daichi a thing or two.

"Go ahead," Kuroo murmurs, dragging his tongue along the shell of Daichi’s ear, "come for me."

Daichi breathes Kuroo’s name, quiet and low, as he comes for the first time that night.

—

Kuroo wakes up early out of habit.

The first thing he registers is rain tapping against the window in soft staccato, soaking the bedroom in a gray Sunday lethargy that makes Kuroo long to stay in bed for as long as humanly possible.

The second thing he registers is _Daichi_ , warm and solid and curled up on his left, fast asleep.

He rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow, and blinks the blur from his vision so he can get a good look at—his boyfriend, he supposes, and what an odd realization to come to at an ungodly hour of the morning—Daichi, who is still but for the intermittent flutter of his eyelashes and the rhythmic rise-and-fall of his ribcage, the slow hush of his breathing carrying the same pull of the departing ocean tide.

Kuroo reaches for him, brushes his fingers carefully down the length of Daichi’s forearm; pauses, tentative, a breath away from the back of Daichi’s hand, before he threads their fingers together in a clumsy attempt at (intimacy, closeness, quiet and unspoken) affection. Daichi makes a noise low in his throat, catches Kuroo’s fingers tight, pulls Kuroo’s arm around his waist and shifts until they fit together, snug, back to chest and bare skin on skin.

Kuroo has grading and paperwork and lesson plans to look over today—but his bed is warm and the rain is soothing and Daichi is _here_ , and he figures a few minutes more won’t hurt.

—

Daichi shuffles into the kitchen at half past nine, wearing nothing but an oversized sweater from Kuroo’s college days and a pair of thick socks.

Kuroo, already at the kitchen table, looks up from his paperwork to watch Daichi walk across the room, because it’s not often that he gets the chance to just look at Daichi without being called on it. He likes seeing how Daichi seems softer in the mornings, how his face is still pink from sleep and his hair is as mussed up as it can be given its length, how he doesn’t protest when he catches Kuroo staring. And Kuroo _definitely_ stares, because when Daichi reaches up to the top shelf to take his designated mug the sweater rises up enough that Kuroo’s almost sure Daichi isn’t wearing anything beneath it.

Once he’s gotten his mug down, Daichi follows Kuroo’s line of sight to the curve of his ass—which is visible even through the sweater, and Kuroo’s not sure how that’s possible, but he’s unquestionably grateful—and gives him a look that manages to be both sharp and indulgent at the same time. Kuroo takes his glasses off (because that’s probably the only way to make himself focus on anything else) and ignores the sound of Daichi laughing at him as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

"Thought you weren’t supposed to wear socks all the time until you got old," Kuroo says to distract him, looking pointedly at Daichi’s feet as he pads over to the kitchen table and curls into the only other chair.

"The bed gets cold when you’re not in it," Daichi says, matter-of-fact, eyeing Kuroo over the rim of his mug. "And you’d know more about being an old man than I would, wouldn’t you?"

Kuroo concedes defeat on that front and hooks their ankles together under the table. “You like me anyway,” he counters, because he knows it’s true, because he likes the way Daichi goes pink when he says it.

"Don’t just say it like that," Daichi tells him, scowling into his mug. "Not this early in the morning."

"When can I say it, then?"

"Later."

"Come here," Kuroo says, beckoning. And _god_ , does he love that Daichi obliges (albeit with an exaggerated eye roll), setting his mug on the table and seating himself neatly in Kuroo’s lap, arms settling around Kuroo’s neck with a fondness that belies the mock-irritated frown on his lips. Kuroo kisses him, easy and unhurried, until he stops pretending to pout and starts half-smiling against Kuroo’s mouth instead.

And when Kuroo pushes his paperwork off of the kitchen table and lays Daichi down on it instead, the only sounds he can hear are percolating coffee and fluttering paper and Daichi’s laugh, all as familiar to him as home.

He thinks: he was wrong, months ago, in that first week of class, because Daichi is anything but ordinary.


End file.
